The dark ritual of The Walk begins … an excerpt from Falon’s Captivity

Falon’s Captivity, book #2 in the Spanked Wives series, should go live in the next few hours, but there’s still time to share another excerpt;) In this clip, the mysterious ritual known as The Walk begins….

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Recap

When we last left off at the end of The Spanked Wives Club, the intrepid — and brash — reporter Falon Moore found herself in some decidedly hot water after defying the gruff and much-too-handsome Sheriff of White Valley…

Like several of her sisters in submission, Lacey, now paramour of both Troy and Hunter, found herself facing the fearsome — and darkly alluring — ritual known cryptically as The Walk…

And Sheriff Ford Mathis found himself questioning not only his own deep-seated needs, but what he might have to do if forced to choose between the town (and the way of life he loves) … and doing what was right.

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Excerpt

Lacey never knew they’d take away even her sight.

Her heart began to jackhammer in her chest as the blindfold descended, the morning breeze impossibly cold against her hardened nipples. She wished she could hear Troy. Even the sound of his voice would help her endure this.

While the idea held a sort of twisted allure to her, the reality of The Walk was so intense, so overwhelming that she didn’t know how she’d ever complete it. That she longed for Troy’s touch, even in the midst of her public debasement, only made things more confusing.

All around her was a cacophony of sound, voices, grunts, laughter, the moan of the wind in her ears. A lock of her hair had been caught in the blindfold, the roots protesting angrily. But with her arms securely trussed up, there wasn’t a thing she could do but ignore it.

“Applicants, begin,” said the man who she’d come to think of as the master of ceremonies. In her mind’s eye he was equipped with the full regalia, the ill-fitting black suit, with faded white undershirt protruding under his chin, the battered top hat, and oh, the black cord of the deadly whip.

Of course here, there was no whip — the women’s shame was far more effective than any instrument of corporal punishment.

A hand patted her on the shoulder, another caressing one of her obscenely presented breasts, that Master of Ceremonies’ voice right at her ear.

“You’ll walk as I lead you, girl. If someone stops you, you’ll stop. When you’re touched, you’re not to flinch, not to resist. Nod your head if you understand.”

She frantically obeyed, as if a mere second’s delay might make her lot even worse. Still, in the back of her mind, insane thoughts swirled. She wondered exactly what they must look like, even envying the view Troy and the others must have had. Was she pleasing him? She debated whether or not to confess how aroused she was, even as the source of that arousal made her want to curl in upon herself. Why was being exposed before all such a dark, twisted thrill for her? She was no beauty, and she knew every flaw, every stretch mark, every imperfection would be illuminated by her ordeal for all to see. Still, she knew how much it turned on her husband. She’d seen the look in his eyes when she’d asked those first tentative questions about The Walk. That it aroused him, in turn increased her own illicit, shameful lust.

What is wrong with you?

How had she gone so astray that her exposure to all those strangers, evaluating, criticizing, enjoying was something she willfully cooperated with? Her debasement, her humiliation was real — in an almost physical sense — yet her nipples were hard enough to cut steel, her clit throbbing in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. Her mouth was dry, her breath coming faster and faster, the smell of the leather gag overlaying all of it.

At that one moment, the blindfold was a blessing, for it allowed her to fall into it, to surrender to her helplessness, to let the humiliation, the buzz and murmur of the crowd wash over her and take her under. She was no longer a woman now, she was an exhibition, a thing, a tool for the crowd’s amusement and pleasure.

Two men in particular were the focus of her attention. That she be arousing to them, that they’d be pleased by her obedience, that they see her strength and fortitude — even in her debasement — was what she hoped for above all else.

Make them proud.

The hand at her shoulder urged her forward, and she stumbled a moment, her breasts wobbling, the surrounding crowd murmuring their amusement.

“Let’s see her do that again,” someone said, their tone one of good-natured mirth. Laughter and approving sounds followed, making her thankful once more that she could hide her shame behind the blackness of her blindfold.

She’d studied the route that most Walks took. Though there was some variation the Directors enjoyed employing to keep both Applicants and spectators guessing, she thought they’d begun to head down the long, long stretch of Columbia. The smell of cedar could just be detected on the wind, which confirmed her guess, the general noise level of the crowd around her preventing her from picking up any auditory signals that might help her pinpoint her location. Once again, she longed to hear Troy — or Hunter. Even a word of encouragement, or a rumbled exhortation to be a good girl, would be worth so much. The feeling of being lost, disoriented, threatened her as she shambled down the sidewalk, her breasts and hips swinging, the movement of her buttocks something she wanted very much to cover with her strictly bound hands.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The voice was deep, male, a hint of roughness to the tone suggesting that of a more mature man. The voice was unfamiliar, but she had no doubt it was referring to either her or Celina, stumbling along behind her in bondage even more heartless than her own.

The hand at her shoulder squeezed, drawing her to a stop, the Master of Ceremonies whispering once more at her ear. “Stay where you are.”

“Look at the nipples on this one. My God,” the older man said. “Almost like cows udders.”

A female gasp sounded at her right.

Celina!

“There you go, girl,” the older man said, pleasure obvious in his tone. “You know, I have a friend who owns a dairy farm outside Olympia. He keeps more than cows there though, I assure you. He has one or two lovelies like you, though I must admit, even after their twice a day turn at the cups, they still don’t have nipples as long as yours.”

Thinking he had finished with them, Lacey moved forward, only to have the hand at her shoulder clamp down brutally tight.

“Oh, where are you going, beautiful?” The older man drew close to her then, his cologne a strong, but clean, scent. “My my, we’ve got some big girls on today’s walk, don’t we?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd off to her left, and she cringed, suddenly reminded of their presence once more.

Hands closed upon her breasts, but not cruelly so, fingers instead stroking across the upper slopes of her bosom, leaving gooseflesh in their wake, chills cascading down her spine.

“You’re a new one, aren’t you? Hmm?”

“This is this applicant’s first Walk,” the master of ceremonies said, a hint of a sneer in his voice. “You’ll have to excuse her skittishness.”

“Oh she’s a good girl, I can tell,” the older man said. He leaned in, his grip upon her breasts tightening. “I never did much approve of putting you girls through this ordeal, but with such the display of tits you and your partner are putting on, I couldn’t resist. Know this, anonymous girl. You’re gorgeous. Every man in that crowd wants you — and I’d venture to guess a few of the women do too. Remember this, when you’re snuggling in your husband’s arms tonight.”

Then he planted a gentle kiss on each of Lacey’s upturned nipples, her breath catching in her throat at both his brazen touch and his unexpectedly kind words.

A big hand patted her bottom. “Best run along, girl,” the older man said. “You’ve got a fair bit still to go.”

Pre-order Purchase Links

I hope you enjoyed the sneak peek:) Tomorrow is release day for Falon’s Captivity, but chances are fair or better that I may be sharing another excerpt or two in the coming days…

Until next time!

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About Trent Evans

A USA Today bestseller, Trent Evans specializes in several flavors of BDSM erotic romance and erotica. Putting pen to paper since he was a wee lad, he decided to try to share some of the tales cooked up in his fevered imagination. Some readers might not be horrified. He tries to write stories that appeal to both women and men (wow, threading the needle), but will follow wherever the story takes him.

A long-time resident of the Pacific Northwest, the author believes that the high percentage of authors in the region (compared to the nation as a whole) is chiefly due to the fact that it’s so damned wet and miserable all the time there. They tend to use their long hours cooped up inside spinning yarns that depict things they’ll never see or experience – such as sunshine.

Disclosure

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